


The through the mirror affair

by HollyMcCoy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Gen or Pre-Slash, Infiltration, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Pre-Slash, Torture, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 08:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12361362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyMcCoy/pseuds/HollyMcCoy
Summary: Illya has betrayed UNCLE and Napoleon is in his hands. TRUSH and UNCLE are after Kuryakin and it's Napoleons job to make sure the three people, who are in on the plan, stay alive.





	1. Chapter1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a multi chapter work and I would appreciate constructive criticism. Thanks!

Kneeling before Illya on the cold and hard floor was doing nothing for my temper. Neither were the insanities he was spouting. He paced up and down for a couple of steps to each side of me, passing just inches before me. Suddenly he stopped in front of me and looked down to where I was trying not to choke on the crude gag. His lips twisted in a cold smile, his eyes icy and empty.

“I had hoped that you would come to _rescue_ me. I had thought you to be in India, but one can always hope, yes?”, he mocked.

In answer, I gave my bonds an angry yank, that did nothing but aggravate the cuts already on my wrists. I had to settle for an infuriated glare. Seeing this, Illya’s smile became more vicious.

“Since you were forced on me to spy on me, you were throwing yourself at me!”.

He started pacing angrily again. As he was talking he jabbed his finger accusingly in my direction.

“You threw yourself at me, only to snatch what I wanted away at the last moment! You teased me and never let me have, what was for the taking of everyone else! How you must have laughed behind my back!”.

He was talking himself in quit a mood right in front of me. Had he just called me a slut? Those were the ravings of a man that had only the loosest hold on sanity. Where was this coming from? I would be the last to deny that my partner was attractive – you would have to be dead not to notice. I was even prepared to admit to a tension between us. But by unspoken agreement, neither ever acted upon it. There certainly was nothing _snatched away_ \- at the last moment or otherwise.

Illya had stopped before me. He took my chin in one callused hand and forced my head up to look at him. I shivered involuntary when I met his mad gaze again. There was a vicious satisfaction there, that did not bode well. I tried to meet his eyes squarely but I had little illusions left. He knew me to well and could read my expressions, even contorted by the wad of cloth in my mouth. He read my confusion and trepidation easily.

“Not this time”, he promised roughly, “This time, I will have my satisfaction of you!”.

His wolfish grin allowed no misapprehensions as to what he was referring to. I tried to swallow against the gag, but couldn’t. I was not above admitting, that I had occasionally indulged in a bit of fantasising, but never like this. Not on my knees in a TRUSH hideout, with my hands tied behind my back and no likely way of escape.

My discomfort, my fear, clearly was the what Illya had been hoping for. His smile widened. He let his hand drop from my chin, only to grab my hair roughly. With a toneless chuckle, he forced my head back and up so far, that his grip on my hair was the only thing keeping me from toppling over backwards. This made it even more difficult to take a decent breath. His face was only inches from mine, as he starred at me. Being the centre of so such focused attention was unnerving at the best of times. Illya stood up straight without letting go of my hair and I was suddenly level with his hips. His erection was quite plain for me to see and due to the snugness of his pants, must have been plain to see for any cameras, I was sure must be in the room. Impressive under the circumstances.

Suddenly he took a step back and still grabbing my hair, tossed me to the side. With my hands still tied behind my back, I landed painfully on my shoulder. I saw no sense in pretending, when I knew Illya could read me like a book and groaned in pain. With a menacing expression, he stalked towards me and crouched before me. Suddenly there was a knife in his hands. Our positions meant that I almost had to cross my eyes to keep the blade in focus. I knew what Illya could do with a knife. A mercifully quick death was the better alternative to the things he could do over a prolonged time. The tip moved towards my throat and I could not help inhaling sharply through my nose. Would he dispose of me just like that?

I felt the blade trailing under my jaw, felt the small trickle of blood running down my throat. There was a commotion someway off, but I could only stare in the other man’s eyes. He was nothing familiar there for me to cling to. I felt the collar of my shirt give way as the blade cut the thin fabric. In a moment, my shirt was sliced open all the way and Illya pushed the material to the side. He sighed in satisfaction. I could not remember feeling this vulnerable and exposed in his presence before. This man had held my trust without question. We had shared meals, ammunition and everything else on missions. He was my best friend. We had faced challenges together, that should have left us dead. And for all of it, to end like this?

My partner of two years was about to lift his knife again. But then he looked up sharply. I could not see what was going on behind me, but I heard a voice command: “Let go of the knife!”.

Illya stood up and smiled his most disarming smile. He tossed the knife to the side and held up his hands, palms outstretched.

“Come on! I was not going to kill him”, he soothed.

Another voice, this one annoyed: “You’re not supposed to have weapons. The boss wants to talk to you anyways. Come on”.

No rescuers then. I guess that would have been too much to ask. Illya nodded amiably at the guards behind me and then looked back down at me. His smile turned cruel and he spat: “We will continue this later”.

As he stepped around me, he paused and said: “Here is something to remember me by, in the meantime!”.

I looked up in reflex and met the kick that was aimed at my head, full on. The world around me turned black.

 

When I came to, I was still alone. I tried to think past the blinding headache and my ongoing confusion. I arrived at the obvious conclusion: I had to get out of there. And quick too, before Illya came back. I had a pretty good idea where this was going and I did not intend to stay around. There was not really a lot available to help me escape. The room was clearly under video surveillance, so I couldn’t even saw my bonds open. There had been a scrape as the knife Illya had tossed to the side, had been picked up. The only idea I could come up with, was risky and would only work if TRUSH was interested in my continued survival for questioning. But I could not come up with a suitable alternative, so I went for it.

I started groaning and made a show of waking up. Then I started retching and making gaging noises. After a short while dry heaving, I felt the increase in salvia that usually preceded vomiting. I hoped my guards where watching their monitors and that they did not want me dead yet. I was counting on the fact that there were only two sets of guards. One to watch the monitors and one in front of the room. If the ones that had taken Illya away were the ones that watched the monitors, I was in deep trouble. Then there was no more room for much thought as I had to struggle to breath in earnest. Time ceased to exist as every second stretched to eternity. There was nothing but my desperate fight for another breath. Then I felt hands lifting me up roughly and pulling the gag from my mouth. I spit out what I had had in my mouth and the guards sprang back with disgusted curses. I let myself flop sideways and groaned with my eyes still closed. Then I stopped moving, made my breath as shallow as I could and waited. I strained to listen for any movement of the guards.

“How hard you figure, he kicked him?”, one of them wondered.

“Not nearly hard enough for me”, came the answer.

And then what I had been waiting for. Before the speaker could pull his leg back from the kick he had given my stomach, I pushed myself up to standing with speed that left me dizzier than I liked. His leg, now on my shoulder was pushed upwards with me, making him topple over on his back. His head hit the floor with a thud. I gave him a vicious kick between the legs and he folded up on his side. I sprang over him to his still confused partner. I managed to kick him in the head hard, before he could raise his gun. But I botched the landing, letting me fall on my already aching shoulder. But both men were out for the moment. I scrambled up again and shot the door a quick look. It was open and for the moment at least empty of any guards. I panted with pain and exertion. I looked around the room for something to cut my bonds with, but saw nothing sharp. I could always wear through them, given enough time, but time was something I did not have.

Resigning myself to more pain I looked for a piece of furniture with an exposed corner. The table would have to do. It would allow me to keep the door and my two new friends in view. I quickly went over to it and stood with my back to it, one leg pressing against the short end, one against the longer, my backside at the corner. I put my bound wrist under the corner and managed to shimmy up on the table by bending forward at an awkward angle. I scooted backwards as far as I could and managed to get my left foot on the table top for leverage. I steeled myself and tried to relax the muscles in my arms as much as possible. Then I yanked my upper body upwards and backwards, leading with my left shoulder. A sharp pain was my only reward. Knowing what was coming did not make the second attempt any less of a test of my willpower. I repositioned my left foot and gave an even harder shove. At the third try, I could not supress a short cry as I felt my left shoulder dislocate. Tears blurred my vision and I’m not sure, if I didn’t black out for a second. But now I could scoot further back on the table and manged to pull my left leg through my arms. As I had feared, I lost my balance at this point and fell to the floor awkwardly. The impact jostled my arm enough that I _did_ black out this time. It felt like an explosion shook the whole building. I could have sworn I heard a dull thrum. Still laying on the floor I set my teeth and fumbled my other leg through my arms, cursing all the time. With my hands now in front of me it was a relative easy, if painful, task to open the knots with my teeth. When my hands were free, I shook out the right one, leaving my left arm hanging uselessly and throbbing by my side. There was no time to try to set it here by myself. I doubted if I could manage anyway.

I hurried over to the guards and gave the one I had kicked in the crotch a wallop with the butt of his own weapon to make sure he stayed out. The other guard’s breathing was uneven and he hadn’t moved at all. I left him alone and put his weapon in my waistband. We didn’t have company by now, so they must have been the ones watching the monitor. I ventured out of the door and was standing in a surprisingly well-lit corridor. I went to the left and found another door at the end. I put my weapon in my waistband, tried the door cautiously and found it unlocked. Behind, however, I only found a broom closet. I turned around and hurried in the other direction. I passed the door I had left open and still trying to think through the pain in my shoulder and head, closed it and pushed the bar in place. I should have done that right away.

I crept past two other doors next to that one and followed the corridor to some stairs. Up or down? I had a feeling of undergroundness and seeing one option as good as the other went up.  There were more corridors and more doors, yet a distinct lack of guards. Not that I was complaining. At one point I smelled smoke, but could not make out the source. With an anticlimactic push through yet another door, I was suddenly outside in the cold night air. With my foot, I stopped the door from slamming behind me and let it slip closed quietly. I couched next to the door as well as I could, then crept forward carefully when I did not see any guards, weapon ready. With every meter, I put between me and the building, I moved faster. Wherever the guards where, I’d be happy for them to stay there. In the end, I made it to the treeline and disappeared in the forest.

 

It took me almost two hours to get to the place where I had hidden the motor cycle. I had been wary the whole time, waiting for a TRUSH guard to step out from behind a tree. Or even better yet, for my partner to accost me. In my current condition, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Nobody came.

Working with only one arm I cleared away the branches and leaves I had used to hide the bike. Now for the interesting part: I stood over the bike, one leg on each side. I gripped the handlebar with my right arm and heaved. The bike rose a bit of the ground but then fell back on the forest floor with a muted thud. I cursed – this would not work. I stood thinking for a moment. I needed the bike. The trail I had left, hadn’t been subtle. Even a city guy would be able to follow it and Illya was anything but. Even worse – he knew how I thought, how I planned. He wouldn’t have to follow me, he would know where I was. And whatever had drawn off those guards would not distract them for much longer. I was sure that there were men on my trail already. With only two handguns, a dislocated shoulder and a concussion, there was not a lot on my side. And with my extremely resourceful partner working against me, there was even more need to leg it out of here as fast as possible.

I climbed over the bike, so it was lying to my right. I grasped the handlebar again with my good arm and pulled. This time, when the motorcycle came up, I could get my knee under the engine. With the bike resting on my thigh, I was able to drag it upright. I managed to swing my leg over it, before it tumbled to the other side. I was drenched in sweat and shivering from pain and exertion. Yesterday’s breakfast was a long time ago. Clenching my teeth, I used my right arm to put my left hand on the handle. With a grunt of pain, I pulled the clutch and kicked the engine to a sputtering start. The going was slow, as I was trying to avoid shifting gears. That meant pulling the clutch with my left hand. Eventually I made it to a rough path through the woods and from there to a gravel path. Then it was not far to a real road into the next town.

I was ready to drop from the bike. The muscles in my right arm were shaking, my left arm on fire. I found the village doctor and told him an unbelievably thin story of a bike accident. He commented on my assorted bruises and the lack of abrasions, but when I refused to change my story, asked no further. His usual patients were mainly the lumber jacks of the area and he had little qualms about setting a shoulder without anaesthesia. I thanked him and let him copy down my information from my UNCLE ID card, to assure that he would receive payment.

 

With my arm now in a sling, I tried to call in reinforcements, but got mainly static. There was no cell phone coverage this far in the woods and the village’s landline was unreliable at best.

I weighed my options: I could try to make it somewhere with better communication and call in for reinforcements. That would very likely cost me half a day at least and another couple of hours for help to arrive. Or I could turn back and try to get my partner out on my own. With the two guns, I had taken from the guards and the equipment I carried on my person. When I had initially been caught sneaking in the compound, I had been taken straight to Illya’s room. They had taken my gun and my knife, but nothing else. What I did not have was a way to trace Illya. I did not know, what was going on in the compound, but after my hasty exit, I doubted that they would hang around. They must know, that I would call for backup. So back to get my partner it was.

I swallowed two more pain pills the doctor had given me and tried my communicator again. I heard an operative’s voice for a short moment and then more static. I repeated my location and my intentions several times and hoped for the best. Then I took off the sling and made my way back to the compound. Driving a wide semicircle, I arrived on the opposite side of the hideout from where I had originally hidden the bike.

 

There still was far less activity than I would have expected. Darkness was creeping from between the trees as night was beginning to fall. I had no plan beyond entering the compound and finding Illya. Depending on what his objective was, we would work towards that and then get out of there. The satrap had three stories as far as I had seen and I nothing in the underground level had suggested itself as a working area of any kind. If my partner had managed to convince TRUSH, that he was a traitor, they would make him recount any information that might seem useful. They would want to record these information for later analysation. In their place, I would make sure to send a copy of the data somewhere else for safekeeping. Couriers would not be quick enough out here. That left radio signals. I could not see any radio dishes, but resolved to search the upper floor first, nether the less.  

Weapon at the ready, I evaded the single guard easily and made my way inside. The door was still unlocked. With an uneasy feeling, I found the staircase I had used earlier and made my way upstairs. I glanced around the corner and still saw no more guards. This was really being too easy for my liking and everything in me screamed _Trap!_. But there was no choice. Leaving Illya behind would be akin to abandonment. It had taken me three weeks to find him here and this morning had shown me, that he was far from all right. If I left without him, I knew fully well that it might take me months to find him again. Even Illya would be hard pressed to keep up this charade for such an extended period of time. So, I set my teeth and entered the corridor. At its end, I could see a door that was not quite latched, spilling light from inside the room through a small crack. I heard voices in there and crept cautiously closer. I listened intently and was just able to make out the conversation. A voice obviously used to command demanded: “… cut the phone lines?”

“Yes, sir! And I posted a guard by the jammer, sir!”, a second voice answered.

“Very well. Have the men pack up the equipment. We cannot leave anything to chances. We leave as soon as possible”.

“Yes, sir!”, chorused two voices this time.

Neither of the voices belonged to Illya. So, at least three men. If I was lucky the authoritative voice belonged to someone who I could bully in giving up my partner’s location.

I drew a breath and with a last look around the empty corridor, pushed the door open. I ducked into the room quickly and came up just inside the door holding my gun directly to a man’s head. The other two stood facing him and he was the one not wearing a Barrett. Bingo.

“Drop your weapons!”, I commanded.

The two men facing me looked at the man in front of me for instructions. Hoping to dissuade any bright ideas, I pushed the barrel of my gun against his head meaningfully. He gave a tiny nod at the men and two guns clattered to the ground.

“Against the wall and spread your legs”.

This time they followed my instructions without delay. Keeping one eye on them I pushed the man’s head in front of me with the barrel again to get his attention. I patted him down quickly and removed a gun from an ankle holster. I pocketed it awkwardly with my left arm.

“Turn around. Slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them”.

I took a step back, out of his reach, should he try anything. With exaggerated care, he turned around. His face betrayed neither fear not surprise. Instead he was grinning at me and greeted me like an old friend: “Ah, Mr. Solo. So good of you to return! Forgot something?”.

I supressed the urge to punch the stupid grin of his face. Instead I ground out: “Where is my partner?”

If possible, his grin turned even wider: “Mr. Kuryakin? Why, he is right behind you!”.

I froze as I heard the unmistakably sound of a hammer being cocked and felt cold metal at the base of my head. The corridor had been empty only moments before and I had heard no movement behind me. The next words froze the blood in my veins. A voice with a distinct Russian accent demanded coldly: “Raise your hands to where I can see them. If you move, I shoot.”

Numb with shock I let the gun dangle from one finger through the trigger guard and raised my arms to shoulder height. I didn’t even wince from the pain the movement caused in my shoulder. _Illya_ … A hand that I knew almost as well as my own came into my vision and grabbed the gun roughly from my hand. The barrel never left my neck. The man in front of me lowered his arms and took his gun back from me. The men over at the wall got up from their spread-eagled stance and picked up their own weapons, grinning as well. The trap had sprung.

The man before me looked over my shoulder and addressed Illya: “He is the price you demanded. And like a good little soldier, he came back to save his _partner_.”, he sneered and then asked: “What will you do with him?”.

When Illyas voice came, it send chills through me. His tone was cold and flat, hatred barely held in check: “I will take what is mine”.

I’m not sure how I would have reacted to that, but the choice was taken from me, when pain exploded in my left ribcage just above my kidney. I grunted in pain and felt my eyes water. My body associated Illya with safety and had not been prepared for the sudden assault. The man before me nodded: “Ah but of course, Mr. Kuryakan. Always so polite”.

Then his gaze fell back on me and he added in a cold tone: “Please make sure he does not escape again before you are through. Not that we are not convinced of your loyalties you understand, but two escapes would be rather… too much of a coincident”. He finished speaking and gave a cold smile to Illya. I was still so tuned to my partner, that I knew he must be nodding thoughtfully as he confirmed: “Of course. I shall make sure of it”.

The cold metal disappeared from my neck and I felt a sudden surge of hope. Surely Illya would train the weapon on the TRUSH agents and we could make our way out of here! My partner would show, he was no traitor, after all. I had been right to trust him and there would be a perfectly reasonable… My feverish thoughts came to a sudden stop, as I heard the sound of a gun being holstered and then Illya’s flat, emotionless voice again: “In fact I shall make sure right now”.

In an instant, he had grabbed my left arm at elbow and wrist and slammed it viciously against the door frame. The sound of breaking bone was very loud in the small room. So was the cry of pain I could not supress. Huddling my arm in front of me, it was taken all my reserves to keep from toppling over. My shoulder was on fire again, but it was outshone by the inferno in my arm. Through the haze of pain, I dimly heard the TRUSH commander chuckle satisfied: “Not so polite, after all”.

Then Illya grabbed my arms and roughly bound them together on my back again. The broken ends of the bone grated against each other and I let out a small cry. Then I heard a zip tie and felt Illya’s hands at my belt. He had zipped my wrists to a belt loop. I would not be able to bring my hands in front of me again. Being in a good amount of pain and still shocked at what my partner had done, I started cussing and belittling Illya. I ignored the TRUSH men and really laid it on Illya. Living up to his nick- name as ice prince, he did not react at all. He just grabbed me by the arm and began dragging me from the room. The TRUSH commander called after us: “We leave as soon as its bright enough for the helicopter to fly. Be sure to be finished by then!”.

Illya did not react and continued to drag me to the basement. I did not struggle, being in enough pain already, but I never stopped cussing on the way downstairs. When I had exhausted the stronger curse words in English, I switched to French and then to German. By the time he shoved me to the floor again in his room, I had just started on Russian. I landed on my knees and the shock to the left side of my body made me cry out again. Through the tears of pain in my eyes, I could see the two guards taking up position inside the door. Illya meanwhile lounged in a chair and seemed content to let me curse at him. So I did. I threw every expletive at him that I could remember. I might not be able to speak fluently in as many languages as he, but I had always had quite a memory for profanities. Eventually I wound down and angrily demanded: “This is how you pay UNCLE back? Have you got no shame?”.

He sprang up and stormed towards me. He brought his face down to mine and hissed angrily: “UNCLE has _given_ me nothing. It _took_ my home from me!”.

I stared at him in disbelieve: “I trusted you!”.

He got back up and smiled down at me coldly: “Ah. And therein lies the problem”.

He walked behind me, outside my field of vision. I sensed him crouch behind me and felt his breath inches from my ear as he continued in a stage whisper: “You see…”.

He grabbed my left arm at wrist and below the elbow again: “I really need you to stop... trusting me”. At the word ‘trust’ he _twisted_ the broken bones and my world exploded in pain. I did not even try to keep in the cry that rose up in my throat. I howled and wretched and finally, finally he let go of my arm. I had been the victim of torture before, but this was my partner. I had no defences; I could not make my body believe that his presence no longer meant safety. Illya knew me like no one else. He would see all my pretences for what they were, so I did not bother with them. Breathing heavily all I could manage was a weak accusation: “You bastard… you utter bastard!”

He had wandered to my front again and was looking down at me disdainfully. His voice was almost bored when he answered: “My parents were married, thank you very much. How very American of you to drag them into this”.

He cooked his head and starred at me ponderously. I had seen him look at puzzles the same way and shivered. Illya was nothing if not through in solving puzzles.

In a curious voice, he said: “You know… I’m beginning to wonder what I ever saw in you”.

Then he seemed to give himself a shake and continued: “No matter. We shall be finished here soon enough”.

Before he could explain further, there were the sounds of gunshots close by. The two guards by the door whirled around and raised their weapons in defence. They were not fast enough and crumpled to the floor. Three figures in the black UNCLE combat uniform stormed over their bodies into the room. The cavalry had arrived. I was dragged upwards and back by an arm over my throat. With my arms still bound behind me, I was leaning heavily on the man behind me. I smelled the familiar scent of my partner and my stomach clenched in fear. I tried to shout out a warning to my would-be rescuers, but Illya’s arm was too tight. I rolled my eyes madly and tried to kick at his legs, but he evaded me easily. Without saying a single world, he dragged my backwards out of the room. The UNCLE agents trained their weapons on him, but could not get a clear line to shoot. They followed us slowly, but once through the doorway, Illya slammed the door shut and turned the ancient key in the heavy lock. As far as I could see we were alone in the corridor. We could hear fighting on the other floors and behind closed doors on this one. Illya didn’t waste any time however and never releasing me out of the choke hold, dragged me to the staircase and finally onto the flat roof. He still hadn’t said a word and I was fighting back panic. One stray shot could mean disaster. One the roof were four TRUSH men trying to get a black helicopter ready for take-off. In the pilot’s seat sat the TRUSH commander I had met earlier. Seeing us emerge on the roof he shouted: “Move it Kuryakan, we’re leaving!”

I felt Illya’s nod behind me as he dragged me over to the open doors of the helicopter. I started fighting in earnest, not heading my injuries. Of course, I was no match for him in my current state, but at least I slowed us down. I could feel his head whip around when the other man demanded: “Leave him! Are you mad?!”

There was a moment frozen in time and I knew Illya was close to breaking. He could not leave me behind and let me live. If I was his price, then he could not just let me go. I knew he had to kill me. Then time started again and the Russian shoved me down again. He sprinted around me and looked down at me.

“Illya…”, I started. To this day, I do not know, what I would have said to him. But he did not wait for me to find any words and struck me across the face with the butt of his pistol. The force knocked me on my side and I tasted blood. Over the noise of the starting helicopter he hissed at me: “Be still!” and raised his weapon. He stood not two feet away from me. There was no way in hell he could miss. With my hands tied behind my back, my left arm on fire, blood in my mouth, I could not take it anymore. I closed my eyes to the sight of my partner’s cold, empty eyes, staring at me over the barrel of his gun. I heard a shot ring out and for a moment felt no pain. Before the thought that he had missed could fully form, I felt an ice hot fire on my forehead. When I opened my eyes, I was seeing through a red haze. Illya was sprinting towards the lifting- off helicopter and threw himself inside just in time. I let my head slump to the ground and listened to the shots and shouts ringing out around me. We had made it for now.

A figure kneeled next to me and pulled off his assault mask. It was Mark Slate.

“Napoleon!”, he cried.

“He shot you! I saw Illya shoot you!”, he declared unbelieving. Mark had known Illya longer than I. They had worked together in London and Mark’s easy-going nature had it made possible for Illya to make a friend in a country that could be very hostile to a soviet. They worked well together and gotten each other out of some snits before. And now Mark had seen Illya shot me with obvious intend to kill. I felt sick.

“Traitor”, was all I could manage over the shaking that had taken over my whole body.

This had been close. My partner had almost killed me. The man I had trusted with my live, who had had my back whenever I screwed up! By the feel of it, the bullet had only grazed my forehead. A few inched lower and it would have blown my brains out. Mark only starred at me in disbelieve and shock and then at the retreating copter. Around us our fellow agents were rounding up the left behind TRUSH goons; we were safe for now.


	2. Chapter 2

Mark cut my bound arms free and helped me to my feet. Within hours I was leaving the nearest UNCLE medical facility with my wrist in a cast, my arm in a sling and a few stitches in my face. Mark and April were waiting for me, but thankfully did not attempt any conversation beyond the solemn promise, that we would get Illa and make him pay. I nodded silently, unable to speak. My mind was running in several directions at once. Making plans and discarding them. Illya knew how I thought, so he would be able to anticipate my moves. He clearly did not want to be found, so I would have a hard time tracing him. But he was limited to TRUSH’s infrastructure. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Illya’s cold eyes stare at me, readying himself to shoot me. I heard him whisper not to trust him and felt him twist my broken arm viciously. In my mind, he called me trusting him a problem, not a mistake. Then I felt him break my arm against the door frame. I saw him lounging in a chair, despite the commander’s warning to hurry, then I saw the raw hatred in his eyes. I stared straight ahead and tried to keep my mind blank. It was not working. Mark and April exchanged worried glances but I paid them no mind and they wisely kept silent. I don’t think I would have been able to keep it together otherwise.

 

Several hours and a short flight later, I was sitting in front of Waverly. The chair that normally held my partner, stood empty. We were alone. I had finished giving him a report as dispassionate as I could manage and was waiting for his reaction. He gazed at me mournfully and began: “It is always a tragedy when a high-ranking agent turns. I know you two worked very close as a team and so Mr. Kuryakan’s betrayal must naturally...”.

That was it. I could not take it any longer. Confusion, anger, pain and adrenalin had worn me thin. I could not take Illya’s name in the same sentence as betrayal. Putting on a show for TRUSH was one thing. Deceiving my and Illya’s colleagues and friends was another thing, altogether. These were people who knew my partner and trusted him. Some had worked side by side with him. Not all had been as welcoming as Mark Slate and now saw their fears confirmed. Carrying the pretence any further than that was unacceptable.

“Bullshit”, I interrupted Waverly calmly.

His eyebrows shot up and he asked affronted: “Excuse me?”.

I repeated just as calmly: “Bullshit”.

I answered his questioning stare, refusing to look away, refusing to give in. It was almost a full minute before he moved again. His eyes never leaving mine, he pressed the intercom on his desk and waited for his secretary to come on the line. Then he ordered: “Engage security level Alpha one! One hour”.

Without waiting for a reply, he lifted his hand from the intercom and with a last searching look turned around in his chair. Calmly he plugged the phone line and intercom line from the wall. Security level Alpha one in this room meant, no information whatsoever would leave. There would be no interruptions. I swallowed and tried to calm my wildly beating heart. Waverly turned back around and folded his hands on his desk.

“And what exactly do you mean by this?”, he asked without inflection.

“Illya Kuryakin is no traitor”, I declared, sure of this at least.

Refusing my nervousness that was trying to make me ramble, I offered nothing more. Waverly’s silent stare was boring into me, but I manged to answer it without flinching.

Finally, he asked: “Yet he broke your arm?”.

I nodded in agreement: “A clean break on my already injured side. Easy to splint, quick to heal. To keep me from escaping? He could have pulverized my gun hand or broken my ankle just as easily and been far more effective”.

The stare this time was even longer, the other man’s eyes giving nothing away.

Then: “He shot you”.

I couldn’t help the snort that escaped me: “From three feet away on solid ground, after he told me to hold still”.

I did not elaborate. My partner was the best marksman in UNCLE and we both knew it. Missing a killing shot under such circumstances was akin to me not hitting a barn door while standing in front of it.

Waverly’s mouth quirked up slightly and I thought I had him. But in a flash the small smile was gone again and he just shook his head sadly and sighed: “Curious, to be sure. But easily explained by misplaced sentimentally”.

Was I imagining the challenge in his eyes?

I nodded slowly and only my training kept me from breaking into a nervous sweat as I admitted to my boss, what I had only admitted to myself a few months ago: “He has no reason to betray us. If it was me he wanted, he would only have had to ask”.

I held Waverly’s gaze with difficulty, but refused to let petty pride stand in my way.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and breathed: “Ah. I see”.

He looked at me sadly again and in a dismissive voice explained: “I’m afraid you let your feelings cloud your judgement”. Was that a hint of disappointment?

In a much more vehement voice he added: “Dozens of good agents have lost their lives, because of one traitor. I will not stand for it!”.

Of course, I had considered this. Brooded on it since I first found myself on my knees in front of my partner. I refused to back down: “Sir… just now, when you told me what a tragedy all this was… you called him Agent Kuryakin”.

His gaze shot up and he starred at me in disbelieve, trying to remember. His eyes narrowed and he accused in a tight voice: “I have not!”.

I smiled at him icily, knowing I had won this time and agreed evenly: “No, you have not”.

Waverly starred at me and then gave a final sigh that suddenly added years to his age: “You are, of course, correct. _Agent_ Kuryakin loyalties have never been compromised”.

He gave my pointed look, but I could only close my eyes in relief. I took a deep breath. Knowing something in your bones is one thing, hearing it said aloud is quite another. Oh Illya – what had you gotten yourself into this time?

Still awash with relief I sat up straight and asked: “Then what _is_ going on, sir?”

Having made his decision, when he declared my partner’s innocence, the other man did not hesitate: “At this moment in time there are only three people who know that Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin is indeed loyal to UNCLE. Two of them are sitting in this room”.

I whistled through my teeth. The third person was of course Illya himself, which only left one possible explanation: “Mole?”, I asked.

Waverly nodded sagely: “The nature of the information compromised, forces me to assume a high- ranking agent, most likely a section head. Possibly even an office head”.

That would mean the equivalent of Waverly’s position! No wonder he had claimed dozens of agents were dead! But how could this be? The higher up the position in UNCLE was, the stricter the background checks became. I shook my head and tried to think. Waverly must trust Illya implicitly to have tasked him with such a mission. But of course, he would have been the perfect lure. Even people who should know better were still wary of Illya. They would mutter and shake their heads, but in secret they would bask in the knowledge, that they had always known. Who in their right mind would trust a commie?

I guessed: “You will leak the information that Illya is a loyal UNCLE agent to the office heads and then the section heads one at a time and see when he is compromised?”.

“Exactly”, Waverly confirmed.

My head was spinning. That scheme was hare-brained at best and decidedly deadly at worst. Right now, my partner was hunted by all of UNCLE and had to make sure to stay in TRUSH’s good grazes. Not knowing how long it might take for the information of his true loyalties to reach the mole, he might have to keep up the charade for months. I barely supressed a shiver at the thought of what that might take. And then, when the trap sprung, he would be hunted by TRUSH. That itself was nothing new, but this time he would be a sitting duck right in front of them. And as the information of his innocence was unlikely to reach all of UNCLE instantaneously, he would be hunted by friend and foe alike for a while. 

With narrowed eyes, I accused: “You know where he is!”.

Waverly nodded: “Agent Kuryakan agreed to have an experimental tracker sown in, the last time he had a flesh wound taken care off in medical”.

Of course he would have.

He smiled wryly and added: “In fact Agent Kuryakin only informed me after the deed. It appears he was instrumental in developing the chip, although he claims otherwise, of course”.

I acknowledged that information, but pressed on: “Where is he?”.

Thoughts of observation, of keeping him safe through this crazy scheme danced in my head. Maybe we could establish some kind of communication system. Maybe I would be able to have his back. Mr. Waverly starred at his folded hands for a long time and then finally started nodding to himself. He looked up at me, all business again: “You will wait for my signal. Under no circumstances will you move, before I tell you to! You will not attempt contact. At all”.

His eyes bored into mine: “If you fail in this, all will have been for naught!”.

Half thought through fractions of plans fell into themselves. Illya would be on his own. I would not be able to offer him the small comfort of knowing I knew the truth. He would still be alone in the vipers’ nest, having to pretend to be one of them, for who knew how long. My partner. I could do this. I set my jaw and gave a curt nod: “I understand”, I promised solemnly.

I trusted Waverly and therefore his judgement. If he deemed communication to risky, I would accept that. It did not mean I had to like it, but I would do as I was told in this. After a last searching gaze, Waverly nodded decisively and went over to the shelf alongside one wall. His hand touched and passed the books lined up there. Then he pulled down a leather- bound tome, covered in dust, identical to the other ones on this shelf. There was no inscription, no author, no title. He lifted the cover carefully and instead of the expected pages, there was just a black box. It was completely featureless, baring a small display. It showed a ten-digit number.

“Longitude and latitude”, Waverly explained shortly.

I indicated my understanding and starred at the numbers, forcing myself to memorise them. My finger shook as it traced the digits. My partner’s life would depend upon my ability to remember them. When I finally took a step back, Waverly shut the book without further comment and replaced it on the shelf. He dusted of his hands and sat back behind his desk.

He waited until I had sat down as well, before he raised his eyebrows at me and asked: “Is there anything else you need?”.

I felt a colossal headache coming on and shook my head. In the last days I had been captured, escaped and been recaptured by my partner. I had dislocated my shoulder, had my arm broken and been shot at. The whole of UNCLE believed my partner to be a traitor and some high-ranking UNCLE official most likely _was_ a traitor. And now I was looking forward to spending months observing my partner waiting for both sides to be after him. There was really nothing else, I could possibly need.

“In that case you might get yourself in a more appropriate frame of mind”, my boss ordered meaningfully.

I looked at him quizzingly and then understanding dawned. I gave wane smile and he busied himself plugging the phone back in. He took his time and when he turned around I was hyperventilating. I pinched my nose with my fingers, screwed my eyes shut and exhaled against my closed lips, turning my face a blotchy red. After the last days, it did not take me long to make myself look like I had just received devastating news. I felt bone tired and hurt. I masked these feelings with anger at Waverly and Illya for keeping this from me. I understood, that nothing would make Ilya’s turning traitor more believable than his own partner giving up on him. What a mess!

I snatched a few tissues from the desk and cumbled them up, letting some of my anger come to the surface. Then I nodded my readiness at Waverly. We stood up and he escorted me to the door. Opening it, he nodded at his shocked secretary: “Get Agent Solo a car, will you?”

He turned back to me and ordered gently: “You are on medical leave until all of this blows over”.

I raised my head for a token protest, but he forestalled me with a raised hand: “I’m decided on this”.

I let my head hang and nodded mutely. I mumbled: “Yes, sir” and shuffled off. Then I determinedly squared my shoulders and tried not to let any emotion show. Or I tried to look like I was trying, while making sure there was enough emotion visible to leave no doubt what had transpired in Waverly’s office. My headache was getting worse.

I made my way down to the garage. A car picked me up and I was home not twenty minutes later.


	3. Chapter 3

I slipped over the wall unnoticed and paused on the other side. Silence. The air was still, there was no movement. I approached the black building, that I had watched so closely for the last weeks. The visible part had two stories, both basically square. The upper story was a lot smaller and therefore left a flat roof on the first story. I knew from my observation and from records I had been able to pull from contractors, that the main part of the building was underground.

I made it to the first roof. I crept up behind the first guard and took him down with a sleep dart. He crumpled to the floor almost silently and I quickly lifted him up and deposited him behind a low wall. There came the second guard. I shot him as well, but he hit a metal ventilator shaft and there was an echoing bang as he folded up. I froze and waited in the dark. No one came. After a couple of minutes, I relaxed the grip on my gun and started breathing more normally, again. I bound and gagged the guards and checked that they were truly out of it. I went around the corner and high in the wall in front of me, was what I’d been looking for. The window was small, but would allow for a person to press through.

I oiled the rusted hinges as best as I could and tried to ease the window open without any sound. The building was old and the constant moisture and heat had left their marks on it. There was rust everywhere, mould and water damage were creeping up the walls. I eyed the window frame critically, but there was nowhere else to tie the rope. Well, I would just have to hope my luck would hold. I pressed through the window and bit back a curse. I had put too much weight on my still broken arm. There was only a slim light-weight cast on it, that offered little protection. I had worn the shoulder sling for as long as possible to reduce the risk of dislocating my shoulder again spontaneously, but had taken it off for my night time stroll. I paused. The sound of even breathing reached my ears. I let myself slide down the rope to the floor. According to my information the window was almost 15 feet up in the wall. I was almost down, when the sound behind me changed and I whirled around. I had pulled my weapon without conscious thought and found myself starring in a barrel myself. Illya Kuryakin was sitting up in bed in the dark room, his gun trained at me.

My heart leapt in my throat and I stared at him. He stared back, neither of us moving, still pointing our guns at each other.

“Solo?”, he asked in a strained voice.

In just that one word I could hear how tight he had himself under control. How close he was to breaking.

I had spent the endless time watching him, trying to come up with a witty comment. Some one-liner that would let him know, that everything would be fine. Some clever remark that would make him laugh and let him know that he could stop pretending. I had come up with dozens of lines.

“It’s over. I’m getting you out”, was all I said.

“Good. I cannot do this anymore.”

The hand that lowered his gun wasn’t steady any longer and by the time he had put it down, Illya had started shaking all over. I hurried over to him and he starred at the cast on my arm. He was slipping and clearly had hardly no resources left to keep pretending. From experience I knew, that he was most likely starting to remember all the things he had to do to keep his cover. As long as the mission went on, you just shoved it down and tried to keep your mind away from it. It got harder and harder the longer a mission went on. And Illya had been through a wallop of a mission. But we had no time for this! I took him by the shoulders and ordered: “Illya! Look at me!”.

He reacted to my voice and our eyes met. Gods, he must be so tired. Having to pretend, to be something that one is not, is exhausting. Knowing that a slip up will cost your own life and if the mole is not found countless others as well, must be gruelling. Normally there is a tight time frame on infiltration missions. Illya had no way of knowing when his cover would be blown. And now, TRUSH and UNCLE would be after him.

“I need you to hold it together for a couple more hours, ok? If everything works out, I’ll have you in your own bed in ten hours, tops!”, I promised him.

Illya swallowed convulsively and forced himself to stop. The effort that must have taken him, would have to be paid for later, I was sure. I had no idea how he did it, but the pain and weariness that I had seen in his eyes just moments before, vanished behind a wall of ice. There was no emotion whatsoever left in his face as he nodded and pushed himself of the bed. He dressed silently and efficiently, before checking his gun and asking: “What is the plan? You are alone, yes?”.

I was. No one could know, that Illya wasn’t a traitor or all evidence would be circumstantial. I knew my partner had agreed to this mission in the clear knowledge, that his chances at making it out were minimal. He had tried his hardest to make me doubt him and to my shame I must admit, that he almost succeeded. Someone to warn him, when his cover was blown, was not part of the plan.

I nodded and hurried back to the rope: “We don’t have much time. There was a codded transmission to this location from UNCLE Austin …”, I checked my watch, “… 17 minutes ago”.

Illya nodded curtly and came over to where I was standing. I motioned him up the rope: “You first. Roof should be clear”.

I could see he was about to protest and pressed the rope in his hands: “You’ll have to pull me up”.

He looked at my cast, nodded tightly and _finally_ began climbing towards the window. Within moments he had wriggled through it onto the roof. I wrapped my good arm around the rope several times and gave two sharp tugs. Immediately I was pulled upwards towards the brighter rectangle in the darkness. Maybe we could pull this off. Illya had just helped me through the window, when in the room below us, the door banged open suddenly. We froze and then ducked under the window, just in time, before the harsh light in the room below was turned on. A male voice: “Shit!”.

And louder: “He’s gone!”.

We did not wait around after that and hurried to the edge of the roof. We dropped down and hurried over to the wall, not caring if we were seen or not. The concrete wall went around the whole compound. The single gate was brightly lit and heavily guarded. There were six guards on duty at all times. We had to get over the wall right here and quickly too. On my way in I had l used the rope. The same rope that was still tied to the window on the roof. I did not bring a second, as I had planned on reusing the one that I had. So, weighing our options, I quickly holstered my gun and placed my back to the wall. I bent my knees and put my hands together to make a step for my partner. I motioned for him, but he shook his head vehemently and whispered harshly: “You first. Your arm will break again”.

“I can’t pull myself up! Now move it!”, I hissed, still motioning him up.

Illya didn’t say anything, but hurried back a few paces. He looked me in the eyes and I could see cracks in his cool façade. The way the skin around his eyes was tight with more than adrenalin. The way he held himself, like he was expecting a blow he knew he could not dodge. He warned me: “This will hurt”.

I nodded impatiently and he ran towards me. He put his right foot in my linked hands and pain exploded in my left side. I felt the bones in the cast shift and my shoulder screamed. I did my best to propel him upwards. As I felt his left foot leave my right shoulder I forced myself to move as fast as I could. I went to where Illya had started running and turned to face the wall. My partner was lying atop of it and holding on with one hand and was letting his upper body hang down the wall. He extended his other hand towards me. After a quick glance over my shoulder I ran at the wall, jumped and kicked myself of it on the crescent of my upwards rise. Illyas hand caught mine just as I was about to fall back down. We both held on as I crashed against the wall. I could not keep in a groan. Illya pulled me up with a grim face and avoided my eyes. I almost fainted from the pain. Miraculously no one had tried to shoot at us yet. We let ourselves drop down the other side and Illya looked around us for a means of escape. I motioned in the direction I had come from earlier tonight, as shouts rang out from behind us. They had found the rope.

As fast as we could, we ran towards the forest. We were well behind the treeline, as the first head lights flooded the area around the compound. Not slowing down, we made our way to the east in a more or less straight line. We did not stop, we did not speak. When we finally made it to a silent forest road we hurried along it, until we found the bike hidden in the ditch. Illya pulled it out on the road and kicked the motor to life. I got on behind him.

I directed him and we made it to a small town without incident not 90 minutes later. When we pulled up at a side entrance of the local hospital, he looked at me in question, but did not say a word. He followed me along the silent floors and up an empty stairwell, until we reached the helli-pad on the roof. There was a coast-guard helicopter waiting with the rotor gently spinning. I pushed the Russian towards it and bundled him in the back seat before getting in beside him. The pilot did not wait for us to fasten our seatbelts and lifted off as soon as we were in our seats. When we were well over the ground I turned to Illya. He was staring straight ahead. When he noticed me looking at him he asked in a flat tone: “How long?”.

I laid my hand on his arm and gave him an affectionate squeeze: “50 minutes, then a 2-hour plane to New York, then a car home”.

Illya’s was still staring straight ahead and I felt his muscles tightened under my hand, before he said: “Don’t”.

Carefully I took my hand away and sat back in my own seat. I did not attempt any conversation beside the bare minimum necessary until the car pulled up in front of my building.


	4. Chapter 4

As my partner made no move to get out of the car, I gently reminded him: “Your place is still under surveillance”.

He showed no outward reaction to my words, but got out and waited for me on the sidewalk. Worried who might see us, I pushed him inside as fast as I could, without seeming to obvious about it.

We rode up in the elevator in silence and when we made it into my apartment, Illya just stood there, watching me reset the alarm. I turned to him, when I had finished and he still hadn’t moved. I looked at him critically, then went around him and into the kitchen. I pulled out the bottle of vodka I kept for him and poured him a generous shot. I reconsidered before putting the bottle back in freezer and took it with me to the living room instead. Then I went back to the hallway, where my partner still stood unmoving. I put my good arm around him and pulled him towards the couch. I sat us down and kept my arm around him. He was still not reacting, but just staring at my rug. I doubted that it really held that much interest for him. He had withdrawn into himself in order to keep functioning. It’s a technic taught to all of us. In high-stress situations you postpone all reactions, all emotions until a more opportune time. It was meant for short term situations. My partner had always been uncomfortable with displaying his emotions around other people. I hoped our connection was still strong enough to allow me to help him through this.

I tightened my arm around him for a moment: “You’re home – it’s over”.

At first, he didn’t react but then his hands began to shake, as they had before. I pressed the vodka glass in his hands. He spilled some before the glass touched his lips, but then he tipped his head back and drank the whole glass. He gave me back the glass and without asking I refilled it. He drank down the second glass as fast as the first and handed me back the glass. Reluctantly I poured another drink and he drank that down as well. When he gave me back the glass this time I shook my head and put it back on the table instead. He had managed to chug almost half the bottle in less than two minutes. While I approved of alcohol as a means to an end, I did not want to have to drive him to the hospital.

Illya let himself fall back against the couch and squeezed his eyes shut. His breathing was fast and irregular, his fists were clenched tight at his sides. Knowing he was not, but unable to remain silent, I put my hand on his arm, as I had before and asked: “You OK?”.

He snorted and lifted his head of the couch. He turned to me and met my eyes with a sardonic smile and shook his head slowly: “I am not”.

Even having expected it, the emotion in his eyes almost made me gasp. Pain vied with self-loathing. I was glad to see a hint of determination in the set of his jaw. But all was overshadowed by despair. Illya showed me his still shaking hands. After he was sure I had seen the tremors, he clenched them tight in disgust and looked away. He put his head in his hands and I could see the shaking spread to his whole body again. My heart was breaking for him and I pulled him close. He allowed me to hold him as he shook, neither of us saying another word. After a while the shaking subsided, then eventually stopped. His breathing had become more regular. The vodka was doing its job.

“Come on”, I said, pulling him up and towards my bedroom.

It was a testimony to his exhaustion, that he did not protest. I sat him on my bed and took his shoes of for him. His gaze had a welcome out-of-focus quality to it, that I was grateful for. Maybe he would manage sleep. I wrestled him out of his shirt and trousers without much ceremony. When I pulled the covers over him, his lids were already dropping shut. He drunkenly mumbled my name and I squeezed his shoulder: “It’s all right, I’m right here”.

I’m sure he was out by the time I pulled the door shut behind me.

 

I went into the bathroom and shook out some pain pills. I really wanted to chase them down with some vodka, but regretfully decided on water instead. I would need to visit medical tomorrow to have my arm looked at. But before that, I had a busy night ahead of me. Waverly had instructed me not to call in unless I absolutely needed to, so I didn’t.

I brewed myself a cup of coffee and pulled my armchair over, so it was between the entrance and the bedroom. I checked my special and settled in to wait.

It took all of forty minutes before there was a knock on my door. That was fast – I would have to congratulate section three. There was routine observation on my apartment, as there was for all section heads. Giving the rookies something to do on a cold winter night. Without getting up I called: “Who’s there?”.

“Agent Solo?”, came the question from the other side of the door.

“Who’s there?”, I persisted.

“Agents Cupper and Andex, sir. You were seen entering with a suspicious person. We came to check up on that”.

“Everything is fine, thank you”.

“Would you mind if we came in to make sure you’re not under duress?”.

“Yes, I would bloody well mind. It’s in the middle of the night!”, I called.

“Sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist!”

I knew that of course. None of this was their fault, they were just doing their job. Nether the less I mumbled: “Well you can insist outside the door, for all I care”.

I made no move to get up and ignored the repeated calls of “Sir!”. I knew it would not take long for the two agents to call in reinforcements.

I was right. Not twenty minutes later there came another knock, this one much less polite and much more insistent.

“Napoleon! It’s Mark and Agents Buffkins”.

“Give me a minute!”, I called and went to disable the alarm system. When I had finished I went back to my armchair, but paused when I saw my partner standing in my bedroom door. He had his gun in hand and his lips twitched as he said in a voice filled with sarcasm: “The Cavalry has arrived”.

I snorted, nodded to his gun and ventured: “You might want to lose that”.

He looked at me for a long moment, but then wordlessly disappeared behind the door. My own gun was in my hand, hanging by my side. I stared at the empty doorframe for a moment and then, taking a deep breath, I turned towards the door and called: “Come in!”.

The door to my apartment flew open and a figure threw himself in the room. Another followed more cautiously with the two young section-three agents bringing up the rear. Suddenly there were four weapons trained on me and I made sure to keep absolutely still. When everybody had time to assess the room for danger, the weapons were lowered. I calmly looked at Agents Cupper and Andex: “Thank you for your prompt reaction, agents. Please wait outside and make sure we are not interrupted”.

They shot Mark Slate uneasy glances and clearly did not know what to do. I did not begrudge them their reluctance. After a second Mark nodded at them and they did as I had told them. We watched them leave the room and then Mark and Buffkins turned expectant eyes on me. I noticed neither man had put his weapon away. 

Mark broke the silence: “Not questioning the boss or anything, but what’s going on?”.

Where to start? I consciously went into CEO mode and ordered them: “Put away your weapons”.

They looked uneasy but did as they were told.

“Good. Now, please try not to yell”, I continued.

Keeping my eyes on my two agents, I called over my shoulder: “Illya!”.

I saw the exact moment when my partner must have appeared in the doorway, by the sudden shock on the two man’s faces. In unison, they shouted a warning. Their hands went to their specials as I knew they would.

“Don’t!”, I ordered loudly and in the most commanding voice I could manage.

Reluctantly Buffkins lowered his hand again. I hurried to reassure them: “It’s fine! He is not a threat!”.

Marks hand still hovered near his gun. He had seen the Russian shot me and had allways considered him a friend. He felt the apparent betrayal on a personal level and more deeply than most. He nodded at Illya without smiling and said: “Glad to hear it mate. Mind if I call it in with the old man?”.

Without waiting for a reply and without taking his eyes of my partner, he uncapped his communicator and opened a line to our boss.

“Waverly”.

“Slate here, sir. Agent Buffkins and I are at agents Solo’s place. Section three called for backup on checking up on suspicious activity”.

“Is Agent Solo present?”, came the calm question. I wondered how the old man did it.

Mark looked at me and confirmed slowly: “He is, yes”.

Waverly’s voice was intent when it came over the tiny speaker: “Everything that you find there, is fully authorised by me! And classified level alpha. Understood?”.

Understanding dawned on Mark’s face as he answered: “I completely understand, sir!”.

He capped the communicator and slid it back in his pocket. Buffkins looked on in good natured bewilderment as Mark nodded to Illya again, this time with a relieved, if awkward, smile: “Mate”.

I dared to look at my partner for a moment. He stood in the doorway, still only clad in shorts and a T-shirt, his arms crossed across his chest. He did not say a word, but just scowled at the two other men. With a last disgusted look, he turned on his heels and disappeared in the bedroom.

Mark had the decency to look sheepish: “I guess I’ll have to buy him lunch, huh?”.

I smiled at him and finally holstered my special.

Buffkins spoke up with a more practical approach: “What can we do, sir?”.

I sighed and motioned to the door: “Would you mind making sure, we have no more visitors until news get around?”.

Both man nodded: “We’ll be down the hall. I’ll call for relief, when things are official”.

“Thank you”.

When they had left, I reset my alarms. Then I went to check on Illya. He was lying on his side, the covers pulled up. His breathing was even, but I’ve had known him long enough, to know when he was faking sleep. I hesitated for a moment but then went back to the living room. If he didn’t want to talk yet, there was nothing I could do. Hopefully there was still enough vodka in him to help him fall back asleep.

I checked the apartment and my alarms again, before settling in in the armchair. When the sounds from the bedroom started, I was surprised to see, that apparently, I had read through half of my book. I had no idea what it was about. I tossed the book aside and made my way to the bedroom. I stopped just inside the doorway and looked at the bed. Illya was kicking at the bedcovers, his face screwed up in denial. He was mumbling, but I couldn’t catch any words. His brow was sweaty and he looked flushed. I knew better than to just shake him awake and instead tried calling his name from where I stood. As expected that did not work, instead his trashing intensified and his mumblings got even more frantic. I cursed silently and went to his side. I sat on the side of the bed and put my right hand in his brow and touched his arm lightly with the other. The thought of trying to restrain him didn’t even cross my mind. My partner was not a tall man, but I didn’t have a chance against him when he was panicking, strength wise. I repeated his name as calmly as I could, while trying to wake him up all the same. With a start, his eyes flew open and his whole body tensed even further. He yanked his arm back for a punch, panic in his eyes. I quickly tried to reassure him, before he could sock me: “Illya! It’s me! Illya!”.

Sudden recognition in his eyes, send a flood of relief though me. Halfway to my temple, his fist fell uselessly to his side and he squeezed his eyes shut again. I started breathing again.

“Bad?”, I prompted.

He nodded silently and tried to calm his ragged breathing.

“Want to talk about it?”, I asked quietly.

He shook his head and opened his eyes to stare at the dark ceiling. When he did not speak for a long moment I made to get up. His hand shot out and he gripped my wrist like a live line. He did not say a word, but he didn’t have to. I sat back down and pushed at him: “Move over”.

He scooted away from the side of the bed and I climbed in beside him. Combat trousers and all. After a moment of shifting about, we were lying side by side, he on his back, me on my side. I put my arm on his chest, so I could feel his steady heartbeat. Illya covered my hand with his. There was nothing sexual about any of this. This was just two survivors clinging to each other. I was almost drifting off to sleep when he said in an anguished voice: “In the dream… _ya tebya obidel_ ”. [I hurt you]

I didn’t say anything, just squeezed him for a moment to let him know I had heard him.

His voice broke as he said: “In Maine… I killed you. _Moya_ hand was not steady… or you moved… and I killed you…”.

I pushed myself up and waited for him to meet my eyes. Then I said clearly and calmly: “But it was. And I didn’t. I’m here and I’m fine. So are you. Can you believe this?”.

He shook his head with the smallest of smiles on his lips: “ _Njet, ne seychas_ ”. [No, not yet]

I smiled back at him and settled down again: “Then I will have to keep reminding you”.

I shifted around until my head was next to his and I knew he must feel my breathing in his neck. After a few moments, I felt him squeeze my hand.

He did not speak for the longest time. When he did, he asked what must have been eating at him since he was forced to capture me: “Did you doubt me?”.

“You broke my arm”, I replied indignantly.

“But, did you doubt me?”, he insisted.

“You shot me”, I accused him.

“So, did you?”, he persisted.

I could hear a small smile in his voice and relaxed a bit. We still had the banter and I could still make him smile. He must have known the answer to his question by now. Then again knowing and hearing were quite different things. I well remembered the relief at Waverly’s admittance of Illya’s innocence, despite the sure knowledge that it could not be as it seemed.

I sighed and said as honestly as I could: “No. I never quite managed it”.

Illya was quite for some time. Then a softly: “Thank you”.

I smiled in the dark. After a moment I could not help myself and turned my head to press a soft kiss in his hair. I heard his breathing hitch and fear began to rise in me. Then he turned his head and I could feel a smile on his lips as he returned the gesture. To tired and to drained for anything else, we shifted around until we were both comfortable again. We fell asleep holding each other and for this night at least, there were no more nightmares.


End file.
